“Can I help you?” she asked through the metal speaker circle.

“My daughter June is four months old,” I said, keeping my tone measured and precise.

“Her rectal temperature read 104.1 ten minutes ago on a digital ear thermometer.

She has a weak cry, flushed skin, and has been lethargic for three hours.”

The nurse pulled a yellow plastic triage wristband from a dispenser tray near her keyboard.

Ethan stood three feet behind my right shoulder, pacing a short back and forth line between the water fountain and the trash can.

He checked his wrist watch twice, tapped his sneaker against the linoleum, and cleared his throat loudly.